matches The Bachelor in its premise but discomfitingly fashions it all as if it were Merchant-Ivory-esque cinematic poetry.

Set in 1931, on the brink of the Spanish Second Republic, it stars Jorge Sanz as Fernando, a boyishly handsome 20-something-year-old soldier who has, as the movie opens, defected. He’s been wandering the countryside aimlessly since; at one point, he is almost apprehended. But, because happenstance is a powerful thing in the movies, Fernando eventually stumbles on a large, secluded property owned by an older man named Manolo (Fernando Fernán Gómez), who likes him and takes him in.

Manolo’s four daughters are coming to visit soon; the plan is that, once they arrive, Fernando will head elsewhere. When the latter briefly meets them at the train station, though, he realizes that to turn the other way would be a mistake. He is young, and so are they; it is the perfect time to get married.

Fernando invites himself to stay at Manolo’s property in the long term, in the name of romancing the daughters one by one. He is enamored of each. But shortcomings in all make it difficult to make anything move past the orthodoxies of a fling. The oldest, Clara (Miriam Díaz-Aroca), recently became a widow, and seems to be interested in Fernando only in terms of comfort; Rocío (Maribel Verdú) is intent on marrying a rich man, and thus exclusively views Fernando as a pastime; Violeta (Ariadna Gil) is a closeted lesbian. (When she has sex with Fernando, it is only because they have just come back from a costume party for which he masqueraded as a woman.) It is Luz (Penélope Cruz), the youngest and most inexperienced of the sisters, then, who is just right.

The problem with Belle Epoque is not its partner-hopping conceit — as long as everyone’s a consenting adult and are kept in the know about what’s going on, fanatical horniness is A-OK as far as I’m concerned. The problem is the characterization of the female characters: In the film, they are not much more than objects — rendered important only if they are, at that moment, important in the eyes of the hero. The film is told from Fernando’s perspective, so an acceptable justification might be that, since he only gets to know these women outwardly, that will have to be the case for us, too. But the screenplay, which was written by the director, Fernando Trueba, with Rafael Azcona and José Luis García Sánchez, draws the characters so hoarily that even Fernando himself is little else besides an idea.

The feature isn’t averse to upholding tiresome gender dynamics, either. (It’s set in 1931, after all.) Of course Fernando will not choose the older sisters — as sexually experienced and challenging women, they’re “tainted” in comparison to the preserved, passive Luz. Belle Epoque, with its sensuous cinematography and resplendent setting, treats its material as if it were high art, had great meaning. But really, it’s a shallow though great-looking sex farce — more buttoned-up than Jamón, Jamón, maybe, but far less genuine.

Jamón, Jamón: A-

Belle Epoque: C